


Counterclockwise

by roseadagio



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crying, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fakiru - Freeform, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Love Confessions, Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Originally Posted Elsewhere, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02, Posted Elsewhere, Romance, Swan Lake - Freeform, Teenagers, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseadagio/pseuds/roseadagio
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a man who died. He had the power to turn stories into reality and tried to continue spinning a tale from his grave, for he had created a machine that would him to do so. But the tale had an unexpected happy ending and his wretched mechanism was destroyed by the very knight who was supposed to die.Alas, happiness is fleeting and the man returned, determined to create one last tragedy. And so, the clock ticks and gears turn, setting a new tale into motion. But his characters intend to resist its clockwise direction.





	1. The Duck and the Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drosselmeyer's story has ended and all is well... Or is it? Ahiru has gone back to being a duck and Fakir returns to being just a boy, but neither one is content with their current lives. But oh! Why are suspiciously familiar black feathers beginning to appear?

Once upon a time, there was a prince who fell in love with a lovely princess. Alas, the princess had been cursed to remain a swan by a wizard and only became human during the night. The enchantment could only be permanently broken by a vow of eternal love. The prince held a ball during which he promised to love and stay by her side forever. But as soon as the words left his lips, the swan's white feathers turned black—he had been cruelly tricked into betraying his true love for the dark swan.

Distraught, the princess threw herself into the lake. Her prince followed her. Both drowned in despair. But was it really the fault of the black swan? No one could say that her love was truly impure. Besides, if the prince had loved the white swan, shouldn't he have been able to tell her apart from the black one? But oh! It seemed that the prince’s love only stopped at appearances.1

.....

The moonlight crept through the curtains, its tendrils stretching across the room. A beam softly illuminated the boy’s face while he tossed and turned in a restless slumber. The sheets twisted and tangled around his limbs. A victim of his own mind, he battled fearsome monsters in his tumultuous dreams. Outside was no better. Rain pelted the window with a sharp thud thud thud while water streaked down the glass. The tiny droplets pooled together at the window sill, clear and pure, resembling little gems. Water was changeable, flowing into shape after shape, never quite staying the same—just like boy’s fears. As Fakir grew older, the monsters under his bed became the Raven and terror of losing Mytho. The monsters shifted forms but remained the same to the depths of their rotten cores. 

Fakir’s eyes opened. He lurched forward. Cold beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He sucked in a sharp breath and clenched the sheets in his fists, fingers trembling and knuckles white. The nightmares had started to become regular. He believed that after Mytho and Rue left for the fairy tale world, he would be able to rest easy. But Fakir was so fucking wrong. If anything, his situation only worsened. Whenever he fell into the watery depths of slumber, he drowned and choked all while fear dug its dagger-like claws into his heart and tore it apart.

Fakir tossed the blankets aside then clambered out of bed. He shivered from the sudden loss of heat. Or fear. His chest felt tight; he had difficulty breathing. The boy stumbled to the lamp, grappling at the darkness. He turned it on and waited for his bleary eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. Papers lay strewn across his desk. Some were half-filled with smeared scrawls but most were blank. Fakir turned the quill over and over in his hand. The remaining ink at the tip stained his skin with black and smeared across an angry red scar in the middle of his hand. He rubbed the scar with his thumb and stared intently at the window with lips pressed together. His body was taut, muscles tense, like a wire about to snap.

The still silence shattered. Fakir lunged to his feet and snatched his cloak. He draped it around his shoulders, lit a lantern, and slipped outside. He crept down the dormitory's winding corridors, careful to keep the lantern hidden behind the cloak to not have the light draw attention. Every door was locked shut, the room's inhabitants fortunate enough to be under the slumber's spell. Fakir stumbled into a wall. His hand shook upon the impact and caused a bit of oil to spill to the floor. From one of the many rooms came the sound of a student stirring awake.

“Damn,” he hissed. Gritting his teeth, tightening his grip, the boy continued walking. He managed to make it outside without another incident only to be pelted by the pouring rain. Fakir ignored the water drenching his clothes and the coldness seeping into his bones. He shivered as his fingers began to grow numb. Fucking idiot. He chastised himself for not having the forethought to change into warmer clothes before stepping outside; now he stood victim to nature's whims in nothing but shorts and a ripped shirt and a thin cloak.

Fakir soldiered on.

He returned to his room moments later with a yellow duck nestled in his arms.

Settling into his chair, Fakir set the bird on his desk and received an indignant quack in return. You don’t need to worry about me.

Ahiru had always been a duck, but because of the story that followed Mytho, she had temporarily become a girl. Fakir didn’t trust her to survive on her own, not so soon after returning to her original stage. For all he knew, Ahiru could’ve drowned. Ducks normally wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell with a klutz like his friend.

“Don’t cause trouble, idiot. I’m not going all the way back out there just to put you back in the pond.” Fakir discarded his drenched cloak. He grabbed the softest pillow from his bed and set it by the duck. “Sleep here at least for the night.”

Ahiru quacked. Her eyes shone with gratitude. Not for the first time, Fakir was struck with a wave of yearning, his wishes for pleasant days long gone pulled to the surface. All those times when they’d walked to school side by side underneath the expanse of blue sky, the hours in the library when she’d bother him as he attempted to study, when they sat across each other at the table sipping tea. Those days, so extremely ordinary, were the ones Fakir missed the most. Now the story had come to an end. Its gears had stopped and the magic had faded. It left behind an aimless town and two characters forced to remember what used to be. Ahiru and Fakir weren’t important enough for a happy ending. They were merely sidekicks forgotten in the blinding golden glory of the prince and princess.

A rustling alerted Fakir of the present moment. Ahiru hopped onto the makeshift bed and folded her wings. The bird fell asleep almost immediately. Fakir smiled and petted her little head. Her feathers were soft against his calloused hands. Rubbing his eyes, the boy turned off the lamp. The light dimmed and left him in the still darkness. All was silent but for the sound of rain, his beating heart, and his loud thoughts.

Fakir climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his trembling body. He laid awake staring at the ceiling despite the exhaustion that plagued him. There was the faint tick tock of an old grandfather clock. Seconds, hours, days lost. Time had slipped through grasping fingers like grains of sand. Fakir didn’t know how much time had passed—it could’ve easily been minutes or hours—but he felt movement near his pillow. A soft quack came from Ahiru. She waddled closer. Fakir lazily wrapped an arm around her, and she relaxed into the crook of his elbow. His breathing gradually slowed to match hers, and his eyes closed; sleep overtook him. The rest of the night was spent in a peaceful slumber.

But Fakir awoke the next morning to realize that, oddly enough, his room had no clock. Not a grandfather clock or even a simple wall clock. Nothing explained the soft tick tock he had heard the night before, but somehow he knew it had come from a grandfather clock. Despite the bright day and comforting light, Fakir shuddered. He shook his head but couldn’t rid himself of the worrisome thoughts that harbored in the back of his mind. Upon grabbing his uniform blazer to prepare for the school day, he noticed the little duck on his pillow, still sound asleep. His lips twitched upwards. Some things never changed. It was just like Ahiru to sleep late. The advantages of no longer being a girl included not having to worry about punctuality. Fakir changed and left quietly to not awaken his friend.

He had the unfortunate pleasure of running into Autor. Though the older boy had his merits, he wasn’t what Fakir considered good company. The boy soon found himself half-listening to a long-winded monologue on Autor’s greatness and Drosselmeyer’s brilliance. Ah yes, this was very much what Fakir needed after hours of lost sleep.

“You're blessed with the ability to make stories come to life, yet you can't write a single word?” Autor pushed his glasses up his nose and smirked.

Fakir grunted and tightened his grip on his books and papers. He was the descendant of Drosselmeyer, a tragedy-lover whose writing came true. The Book Men, a group of men who feared his words, cut off his hands. But before he died, the writer created a mechanism that would allow him to spin his tales from his grave. Not too long ago, the man who was supposed to be dead had dragged the entire town into a story with the intention of creating a heart-wrenching tragedy.

Unlike Autor, Fakir could write stories that became real, engendering the cocky musician’s jealousy. Autor, who was somewhat related to Drosselmeyer as well, wholeheartedly believed that he was more deserving of such power. Fakir would’ve gladly transferred the ability to his obsessive distant cousin. Perhaps he could use it to return Ahiru’s human form. They’d agreed to return to their true selves when the story ended, but Ahiru was far too sentient to just be a duck. Even before Drosselmeyer’s inference, Ahiru had harbored feelings for Mytho, much like a human. All the anthropomorphic animals had returned to their original forms. They stopped acting like people while Ahiru still acted very much like a girl. Fakir didn’t quite believe that his friend’s true self was really a duck. He had tried and tried again to make Ahiru human, but had failed each time. He poured his all into heart-wrenching works of a duck becoming a girl, only to have the sentences stay as meaningless words on wrinkled paper. Fakir’s writing abilities were nothing but a burden to him.

“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you? That girl who acts like a duck, the one you always write about? Though if you ask me, you could’ve chosen a better subject.”

Ah, that was right: Autor in all his irritating glory still existed. Fakir grumbled, “She is a duck. And I prefer writing about her.”

Autor sighed, then pushed his glasses up his nose. The lenses glared stridently in the bright sunlight. “What a shame. At the level you’re at, you won’t be getting anywhere.”

“I have no interest in pursuing writing.” Fakir’s eye twitched.

”What a waste of a wondrous ability. I don’t suppose you’re continuing with ballet?”

Ballet. The way Autor pronounced it, how it oozed out of his mouth with such disgust, irked Fakir to no end. “And if I am? Nothing has happened the way we wanted it to, but you cannot try living vicariously through me.”

Autor sniffed, straightening his collar. “How quick to jump to conclusions. As always, you have quite the temper. I’ll have you know I wasn’t trying to.”

The two parted ways without another word. Fakir stood still, the breeze lifting the ends of his hair and stirring up the vibrant leaves. He watched Autor walk into the music division building. A contradiction of sorts that boy was. So hopelessly arrogant about his knowledge, yet really, he knew nothing useful. So awed by Drosselmeyer’s sadistic actions, yet he courageously defended Fakir against a tragic fate. Autor was an annoyance, but he was the closest thing Fakir had to a human friend.

Now what was he thinking? He must be going mad if he considered the purple-haired musician a friend. Yet the teen couldn’t deny that he had also once scoffed at the idea of working with Ahiru, and look where they were now. Fakir figured that perhaps there was a possibility. After all, the little yellow duck had taught him to always have hope—anything was possible. That, or loss of sleep made him delusional.

Fakir walked to the practice rooms and entered one. The building was mainly empty; classes had yet to begin. He slipped inside. The new ballet instructor emphasized practicing every day, which he had done so diligently. But on that morning, the boy didn’t quite feel like doing so. He had always practiced in the early mornings and late evenings. If anyone deserved to take a break, it was him. The danseur2 leaned against the wall and rested a hand on the barre. The wood was rough and cool. One side of the room was a mirror, the glass so clear it would reflect anything and everything. The other side had large windows that allowed sunbeams to deep into the dim room. In the early morning, the light tinged it a soft orange-pink.

How many countless hours had he spent in here, occupied with nothing but dancing? Fakir had lost track. He meandered across the room as his hand trailed along the barre. At this moment, he couldn’t help but take in the sight before him as though it was the most dazzling scene to ever appear. Even the cobwebs clustered in the corners seemed precious. Everything ordinary was.

The door opened and caused Fakir to look up. Autor stood in the threshold with music sheets in hand, glasses glinting in the light. “I thought I would find you here.”

The moment, formerly suspended in the endlessness of time, was startled to an end. It was like a beautiful glass vase that had fallen to the floor and shattered.

“What is it?” Fakir let his hand fall to his side.

“This was left in my bag—I didn’t put it there. Something about it, well, you should take a look.” Autor handed him the music sheets. The danseur flipped through them. There, printed on the papers in blood-red ink, were the notes for every piece used in Swan Lake. He was struck with a uneasy feeling. Somehow, he knew which ballet the music was for. He wasn't supposed to. Fakir sucked in a sharp gasp and massaged his forehead. The last page was torn in half; a story had never reached its end. A sleek black feather slipped from the pages and floated to the ground. Fakir’s eyes widened, and his chest tightened.

“How?” The word came out as a hoarse whisper in the hollow silence.

Autor shook his head. “I’m not certain. Perhaps it is a ploy from the Bookmen. It is possible that they may still remember us.”

He made a plausible point, but still, Fakir couldn’t ignore the pit of dread that formed in his stomach. Deep down, he knew that this meant so much more. ”Let’s hope it is.” Without another word, he brushed past Autor. Unsurprisingly, the musician became indignant and followed close on Fakir’s heels.

“Where are you going?” 

“The library.”

“I’m going with you.”

“There’s no need.”

“Don't you remember what happened? It was me with my superior knowledge who helped you bring Drosselmeyer’s story to an end. While the ending of such a marvelous piece is ironically a tragedy in itself, you can’t just tell me ‘there’s no need.’”

Fakir glanced at him. “Fine.”

Autor smirked and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Of course. You can’t deny that I am important.”

The danseur fought to avoid crumpling the music sheets in his hand and hurling them at Autor’s face. Taking a deep breath, Fakir entered the library. He felt like an out of control wreck, a feeling exacerbated by the quiet calm of the few studying students. Girls and boys in their crisp school uniforms sat at desks with large textbooks opened, not bothering to look up when the pair entered. Briefly, Fakir wondered what it was like to be normal. Drosselmeyer’s stories had ruined the lives of everyone involved. Ahiru, who fought with all her might to give the story a happy ending, ended up turning back into a duck, unable to dance or talk with her friends. Autor, who so manically researched Drosselmeyer and composed theories that the stories were controlling the town, was abandoned by the girl he loved and spent his days knowing that his theories would never be validated. The town had forgotten everything and moved on. All the tears shed, the pain endured--that meant nothing to the townspeople who simply continued on with their daily lives. Fakir himself could barely stand it. He needed Ahiru, Autor, Karon. He needed people who remembered, who cared.

Hell, he actually needed Autor, as much as he hated to admit it. Now the boy knew was really going mad. Perhaps that was what the story-spinning power did to people; in addition to being a talented writer whose words became reality, Drosselmeyer was the epitome of insanity.

Upon reaching the librarian's desks, Fakir stopped dead in his tracks, his hold on the papers loosening. The hairs on the back prickled, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears. Instead of a human at the desk, a bat hung upside down from the ceiling with books in its little hooked claws.

“Fakir, what is it?” grumbled Autor, who had run into him. Upon peering behind his shoulder, he gasped. In disbelief, the musician straightened his glasses, but the scene before him remained the same.

Annoyed, the bat glared at them, demanding in a nasally voice, “Haven't you two ever heard that it's rude to stare?”

Fakir cleared his throat and backed away. “My apologies.” Grabbing Autor's arm, he dragged him to a secluded area of the library.

“The talking bat, no one noticing a thing, magic...”

“I know,” Fakir whispered when he had finished rambling. “Drosselmeyer is returning.”

Little did the knight know, the very man he spoke of watched with undivided attention. From his realm of clocks and gears, the man who was supposed to die lounged in his rocking chair, a cup of tea in his hand. Three parts Darjeeling and one part Assam—his favorite blend, especially for the beginning of a magnificent tragedy. Puppets and machinery were suspended by thin strings in the dark nothingness, ready to be summoned at his whim. No sun could be seen in the world beyond death, but a light illuminated the writer as though he were the star of a play. The chair creaked in the still silence as he rocked back and forth, occupied by the scene depicted in the spinning gear unfolding before him.

“Ah, you failure of a knight, you didn't really think that was the end of me, did you?” Drosselmeyer cackled. The light glinted off his leering orange eyes. “Now, tell me a magnificent tragedy, a cataclysm of tears in which not a single person survives and to which a happy ending shall never come!”

“Drosselmeyer-zura!” The banging of a drum interrupted his laughter. The sound grew louder; Uzura, a miniature green-haired puppet, hopped closer.

Eye twitching, the old man turned to look at her. What did she want that was so important she had to cut off his session of fun?

“What about Ahiru, zura?” Uzura looked up at him with wide green eyes. She folded the drumsticks across the drum, pressing her lips together.

Drosselmeyer stroked his beard. A wicked smile spread across his wrinkled face. “That is a marvelous idea! A perfect heroine is the epitome of boring, but an imperfect one would certainly add some flourish to this story.” Snapping his gloved fingers, he conjured a grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging violently from side to side. Tick tock, tick tock. Giggling like a little child, the man stepped inside with Uzura at his heels and was transported to a pond on the outskirts of town.

The pond was a secret place shrouded in thick fog and obscured by towering trees. All was silent but for the buzzing of the bugs who floated on the water. Near the edge of the water, peeking through a cluster of reeds, was the bright yellow of a duck. Ahiru munched on the breadcrumbs Fakir had left her during lunch. Upon hearing the leaves crunching under feet, she looked up, heart quivering with expectancy, expecting to see the very boy who had left her food. Her blood ran cold when instead of Fakir, Drosselmeyer's looming figure appeared before her. His orange eyes lit up, and he grinned at her to reveal large yellow teeth.

“Ah, it's been quite some time, hasn't it?” When her eyes widened in horror, Drosselmeyer laughed, a raspy sound that collided with nature's melody.

“Quack!” Ahiru furiously flapped her wings and kicked her feet, propelling herself to the other side of the pond. Her heart pounded in her rib cage like Uzura's drum. She was imagining things. This must've been another nightmare! It couldn't be true. The old man's return simply wasn't possible. She had seen Fakir destroy his machine with her own eyes.

An illusion of the writer's face appeared in the rippling water before Ahiru. “Did you forget, little duck? You're just another pawn for me to create a brilliant tragedy!”

The bird flailed wildly, sending water splashing everywhere, and turned the other direction. She plunged headfirst into the water and tumbled below the surface. She choked and coughed when the water entered her beak and built up in her throat. Ahiru quacked and flapped her wings. She struggled to regain momentum and swim away from Drosselmeyer.

No sooner had she reached the edge of the pond did his form appear before her once more. The writer leaned over with outstretched hands. “This time, you won't be so lucky as to have a happy ending!”

Ahiru shook her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed him away. If only this were a horrid nightmare, the man would simply be a figment of her imagination. When there was no response, the bird relaxed and opened her eyes, only to be greeted with Drosselmeyer's face right in front of her. She quacked and fell backwards in an attempt to escape.

“Ah, but it doesn't look like you have a happy ending now, does it? Oh, how interesting! Things will be changing in your peaceful pond life very soon!” The writer stepped back inside the grandfather clock. With the faint whirl of gears and the soft tick tock, the clock faded. The air became silent again as though the world was holding its breath.

Head bowed, Ahiru stared at her reflection in the pond. She used her wings to scoop up the water and splash it on her face then slapped herself. She even waddled up to the shore and hit her head on the ground. Nothing erased the memory of Drosselmeyer from her mind. She peered through the tall reeds, through the curtain of fog, through the clustered trees. Everything was as it had been before: it was as though the writer had never appeared. A little spark of hope lit up in the duck's chest. Perhaps he had never appeared. Perhaps it was really all just a horrid dream, one to be locked in the back of her mind. No, that was foolish. To deny was like asking for trouble later on.

Ahiru took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Her heart still pounded wildly, beating faster than the ticking of a clock. Time. She was running out of time. The bird waddled up on land then paused when she saw the expanse of trees before her. The forest seemed to stretch on for miles. A seed of doubt took root in her mind. What could she do? It would take hours as a duck to make it to the town. Being so small, she would only be trampled beneath the townspeople's feet. In addition, there was no guarantee that she would even find Fakir. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't do anything, not even alert Fakir of Drosselmeyer's appearance. Not for the first time, Ahiru felt helpless, useless, and unneeded. For lack of a better option, she waited for her knight to arrive.

.....

1 - Based off of Swan Lake, a ballet that was first composed in 1875 and has various endings.

2 - A male ballet dancer.


	2. Scheherazade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drosselmeyer appears once more despite the destruction of his story-spinning machine. Fakir chooses to write again to help Ahiru, but this time, things go horribly wrong.

Long ago, in a small town hidden from the rest of the world, there was a boy who loved to write. He had the power to make his stories come to life, much like the man who had died. He could've written about riches and great glory and wouldn't have had to give anything in return.

The town the child lived was infested with ravens. He dreamed of being a hero and tried to write a story that would lead to him defeating the cruel birds. But the tale ended in a tragedy when it became reality. The price to pay was his own parents' lives. In the end, he would have to give something in return whether he liked it or not. Nothing was truly free after all.

.....

Ever so slowly, the writer slid the duck feather quill into the ink well, disrupting the smooth pool of liquid. The tip of the quill surfaced covered with slick black ink. The smell lingered in the air. Fakir inadvertently tightened his grip on the quill. The feather brushed against his calloused skin. He gritted his teeth and pressed the quill to the parchment to fill it with scribbles, hands smeared with ink and slick with sweat. Letters, words, sentences. Fakir had no concrete ideas nor a planned plot. The words failed to flow easily and instead tangled together to create a written cacophony. With a grumble, he slashed out what he’d just written, crumpled the paper, and hurled it aside. It rolled across the rough wooden floor and soon became lost in the shadows of the room.

The door opened with a loud creak; it had been years since the hinges had been oiled. Fakir looked up to see a thin silhouette, the daylight shining behind it to create a halo effect. He winced from the sudden brightness and rubbed his eyes. The door was shut, and Autor came into view. The shadows danced across his face to give him an eerie appearance.

“Writing again?” He raised an eyebrow at the stained paper and streaks of ink across the desk. The shine of his glasses glared stridently in the dimness. “You know, if I had your power, I’d fill my pages with many words and spin numerous tales. A shame such an ability has gone to waste with you.”

Fakir clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “I have no interest in meddling in the fates of others. It isn’t my intention to bring harm to the town.”

“My words still apply. While you may not derive pleasure from torturing others, you should want to protect it from Drosselmeyer. Isn’t that what you always do, play the hero? How valiant.” Autor laughed dryly and pushed his glasses up his nose.

The boy averted eye contact and focused instead on the parchment in front of him. He couldn’t rewrite reality, not on his own. His writing was a product of reality instead of the controller. Fakir played the powerful knight while hiding behind fear. His cowardice being both a shield and flaw; he was weak and relied on others for strength.

The air remained silent. The light of the lamp before him flickered. The writer finally said, “We don’t know yet if Drosselmeyer is back.” Really, that was a weak argument. There had been more than sufficient evidence that pointed towards the old man’s return. A sickening feeling of dread lodged itself in Fakir’s chest.

“Even so, it’s sad that you’ve haven't written anything. Someone is awaiting your story.”

Fakir paused, an act that allowed the ink coating the quill’s tip to drip and form a small, dark blot on the paper. Fresh and wet, it shined under the dim light. He rested his forehead on the back of his hand. Long bangs fell in front of his face like the curtain of a performance. The writer wasn’t certain of Ahiru’s feelings. That time in the lake—hadn’t they agreed to return to their true selves? But a thought, a forbidden thought, crept into his mind. If his mind was a garden, then the impossible thought was a weed hidden in the dark shadows and prepared to spread its vices to the other greenery. He wanted to turn Ahiru back. No, not just wanted—needed. Fakir couldn’t bear speaking to the duck, entrusting her with his secrets and fears, only to have her give nothing but a soft quack and look of sympathy in return. 

Drosselmeyer’s story had left the pair with glory but certainly not happiness. Happiness was reserved for those who accepted their fate, not defied it. Rue and Mytho had been the epitome of perfect fairy tale characters; the former embraced hers as a villain, and the latter eagerly took on the role as prince. But Fakir had been destined to die. No matter what he said, no matter how he covered his cowardice in false bravery, deep down, he couldn’t find it in himself to die.

Though as luck would have it, the knight had given up his life in a way. To protect the prince, Fakir had forsaken any chance at a normal carefree childhood, opting instead to look after the heartless Mytho’s needs. As for Ahiru, her Princess Tutu had been fated to disappear into a speck of light. Ahiru herself hadn’t vanished but Tutu had. Unless Mytho was willing to give the little yellow duck a shard of his heart, Tutu was gone and would never return. Destiny had a way of fulfilling itself in its own twisted way.

“I’m...” Fakir began in a hoarse whisper. “I’m not sure if Ahiru wants to be turned back. I can’t do that.”

The writer clutched the quill while he awaited a snort and rebuttal. Instead of arguing, Autor softened his expression and looked at Fakir with sad eyes. “I understand. You have someone you want to protect. But that is the issue: sometimes you have to risk hurting someone to save them. If you do nothing, nothing at all, that duck and the entire town will be in danger.”

Autor’s words hung in the silent air. Both parties remained still. The words echoed in Fakir’s mind. Drosselmeyer was returning, and the burden of saving the town once more rested upon the writer’s shoulders. He, the boy who had battled the ghost knight, valiantly swinging his sword and fighting with all his strength. But still the foe's blade had cut Ahiru. He couldn't even protect her, his own princess. Fakir had lent her strength in the final battle against the raven, writing furiously to change the story's ending. In the end, it was Ahiru's determination that gave the tale its happy conclusion. He couldn't finish the story; he could only help her end it. In the end, he wasn't a good knight or a skilled writer. The only thing he'd ever truly been good at was devoting himself to helping others. Always the helper and never the hero.

Tick. Tock.

It was the faint sound of an old grandfather clock. Fakir looked up to see that Autor had been frozen still. Empty eyes stared at him from behind thick glasses. He hesitantly reached out to touch his friend. Cold and hard, Autor felt like a marble statue. Fakir sucked in a sharp breathe and stumbled backwards. A thorn of fear, sharp and merciless, dug itself into his heart, which began to hammer inside his rib cage. The sound of soft footsteps on the slick wooden floor made him turn. Drosselmeyer stood shrouded in shadows, the heavy red cape hanging off his thin frame, the floppy feathered hat titled over his weathered face. His mouth spread into a wide grin to reveal large yellow teeth.

“So my descendant wants to write a story, eh? How pitiful.” Drosselmeyer’s voice could be compared to the sound of rusted gears scrapping together.

“Drosselmeyer!” Fakir lurched to his feet, clenching his fists, narrowing his malachite eyes. He tried to fight the thorns of fear entangling his heart as he stared down the man who was supposed to die. Drosselmeyer wasn't supposed to be alive—Fakir himself had destroyed the man's machine, which was supposed to end his ability to create stories once and for all. How could the sadistic storyteller come back to haunt him?

“You're trying to write responsibly, aren't you? Didn't I tell you that wouldn't work?”

The knight stepped forward, staring at the old man's orange eyes. He forced himself not to look away, feeling his blood run cold. “Get out! You have no place here!”

“Ah, that won't do, will it? You're a hostile character, but then again, all marvelous tragedies have one! Let's see if we can spin a new story!” The storyteller gave the boy a sadistic smile and clapped his wrinkled hands together.

“Don't even try—”

“Once upon a time, there was a duck. She had always been a duck but had once been a human girl. And as a human girl, she fell in love with a useless knight. Unfortunately for her, she became a simple bird once more,” the writer continued. His bulging eyes lit up with glee. “Alas, neither the bird nor knight were satisfied with the situation. One day, the duck received a new pendant that allowed her to become a girl like before. Only this new gift came at a cost...”

The boy's hand shot across the fresh sheet of paper, filling it with the old man's words. Fakir gasped in horror and gripped his wrist in a fruitless attempt to stop it. The scar on his hand burned an angry red, a painful reminder of what happened before. “N-no,” he whispered, lip quivering, eyes narrowing. Suddenly, his hand stopped, and the quill went limp.

“Write, boy. Finish the story—you know you want to. Just remember that there is a price for everything.” Drosselmeyer cackled and snapped his fingers; the door opened, and he disappeared behind it. With the whirling of gears, he was gone.

Fakir stared at the fresh ink. The words burned into his mind. He had tried countless times to turn Ahiru back into a girl; what difference would this attempt make? Nothing he wrote ever came true. He was the knight fated to be sliced into two, the writer whose stories failed. He couldn't control reality like Drosselmeyer for he only wrote what would become reality anyway. Even if he could bend the world to his words, what was the price? A person couldn't get something for nothing; a price must always be paid. A person must give in order to receive for nothing could truly be created nor destroyed. That was what made spinning tales so dangerous. A happy story couldn't be created so easily—sacrifice and suffering were needed to make a happy ending possible.

When Fakir was a little boy, he wrote a story that caused ravens to descend upon the town. Their beaks sliced into flesh like knives and screams ring in the air. Fakir's childish scribbles had ended with him as the valiant hero, but the ravens had taken two lives in exchange for the glory: his parents'. They had died to protect their precious son, who hadn't become the hero after all. In the end, the boy had lost much and gained nothing. Unfortunately, the stipulation didn't stop Drosselmeyer. In fact, it only encouraged him. The tragedy-loving sadist had no qualms making sacrifices from the lives of others for the sake of his twisted stories. So just how much was the young knight willing to sacrifice?

Autor stirred to life. Upon seeing his friend’s pale face, his eyes flashed with concern. “What happened?”

Fakir opened then closed his mouth. His throat was dry, and his tongue was heavy. The words wouldn’t form. Finally, he choked out, “Drosselmeyer came.”

“Really?” His friend’s eyes widened in maniac excitement. “That’s marve—“

A hand shot out and wrapped around the front of his shirt. Fakir lifted him from the ground. His eyes were dark and narrowed, and his mouth was twisted into a scowl. “Do not let me hear you say that again.” The boy gulped visibly, and Fakir released him. 

Autor shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose with shaking hands. Looking away from the writer, he began to leave. The door creaked open, and a sliver of light, warm and pure, crept into the dim room where so many evils had been committed. “Take into consideration what I said. Harness your ability. At your level of power right now, you cannot hope to defeat Drosselmeyer.” The door shut. The light faded. Once more, Fakir was left alone in the darkness with his wretched fears. But—

“What are you doing, zura?” A high-pitched voice cut through his thoughts. The boy turned to see a little wooden girl appeared behind him banging on her drum. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as a wide grin crossed her face.

“U-Uzura?” the boy gasped. Fakir thought she had gone with Drosselmeyer when the story ended. Uzura was created from the wood of Ms. Edel, a puppet the old man had created as a narrator. She had set herself on fire to save Fakir, who asked Charon to salvage the uncharred pieces. As annoyed as he was, the boy couldn’t deny that he was pleased to see that the puppet whom he had come to view as a younger sibling had returned. Perhaps Uzura had grown tired of the old man. The visit from his ancestor was still fresh in Fakir’s mind. He knew that if he were to stay with Drosselmeyer, he would go mad.

“I wanted to see you be lovey-dovey with Ahiru, so I came here, zura!”

The boy hastily recanted his earlier thoughts. He was definitely not happy that Uzura was back. From handing him false love letters to constantly asking Fakir about love, Uzura had done all that she could to bring him together with Ahiru.

“W-What are you taking about?” Fakir's eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth, his face burning. He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, his tan skin turning tomato red. The boy had never done well in awkward situations and this was no exception.

“Why is your face red, zura?”

“S-Shut up!” he ordered, his embarrassment peaking. He shook his head and bent down to pick up the scattered papers. His long bangs fell into his eyes, curtaining his face. First Drosselmeyer and then Uzura? Despite being made from Ms. Edel's wood, the puppet was nothing like her predecessor. Her only purpose seemed to be to irritate him.

“Tell me, zura!” the girl demanded, pouting. She began to bang on her drum, the sound making Fakir's ears ring.

“Hey, stop that, will you?” Annoyed, he twisted her head around. “Honestly, nothing you've learned is good.” Setting the papers on his desk, the boy slipped on his school jacket. He needed to research, to find even one clue as to why Drosselmeyer had come back. The urge to gather information nagged at him. Opening the door, Fakir glanced back at Uzura. “I'm going to the pond. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone.”

“I WANT TO GO, TOO!” Uzura ran after him, close on his heels.

The boy sighed, his grip tightening on the doorknob, his eye twitching. The last thing he needed was a distraction and Uzura was never one to keep quiet. “You're staying here and that's final—you're too noisy.” He shut the door and left, making the diminutive puppet scowl.

...

The quiescent pond lay shrouded by the morning mist, hidden behind graceful willow trees. Bugs danced across the water, making the surface ripple, their translucent wings fluttering. The air was silent and still, like a paused story, save for the buzz of insects. Reeds lined the edge of the pond, obscuring a small yellow bird nestled near the shore, who pecking at bits of freshly-baked bread.

Fakir petted her head, a small smile crossing his face. In his right hand, he clutched a bundle of books and papers filled with scribbles. In another story, he had been a cloaked knight who protected everyone, and Ahiru had been a selfless ballerina. Now, he was only a student struggling to spin a story, and the duck was just a bird. She quacked and spread her tiny wings, waddling closer to him. A small smile crossing his face, Fakir lifted her into his arms. Ahiru's blue eyes stared up at him, filled with concern. She had given up everything she loved to save even people she hardly knew. To stand so much to lose and sacrifice it all without a single thought...

It was time for someone to sacrifice for her, to be her hero. There was no reason to make the green-haired boy think twice; the courageous duck deserved to be fought for.

“When I told you that it was okay to be the true you, I meant it. But a duck, that's not the true you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You genuinely care for people—you loved Mytho even before you received the pendant, and you still love him. That's something a bird can't do.”

Ahiru tilted her head. Her face was scrunched while she was deep in thought. The boy ached to know what went on in her mind. Did she believe his words? Or was he a fool to believe she wanted the same as he? Ahiru let out a soft quack and leaned her head against Fakir's chest. The knight nestled his nose into the duck's feathers. After a moment, he set her on the grass and pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a quill. Dipping the feather into the pot of ink, he pressed it to the paper, forming words and sentences. He understood now; in order for Ahiru to become human, he must trade something in return. And so, the young writer spun a glorious tale of a knight and a duck. Without hesitation, he gave his heart shard of hope to the princess he loved, the girl who brought light to his darkness, the girl urged him to never give up.

A sharp pain tore through his body like a terrifying raven's claw. Gasping, he clutched his chest in pain, falling to the ground. A scream ripped out of his throat and his eyes grew wide in agony. There was a ringing in his ears and he felt nothing but pain. The town grew dark and ominous. Thunder rumbled in the distance while lightning shot across the black sky with small flashes of red. A bolt blasted a tree, sending it tumbling to the ground, setting the bark ablaze. Ahiru flapped her wings, racing around the fallen knight in horror. She nudged him with her beak, begging for him be alright. Fakir laughed weakly, forcing a smile.

“Idiot, there's no need to be so worried,” he forced out. There was a sudden sharp jab in his palm and he lifted his hands. There, in all its glory, was a glittering red heart shard. The duck quacked in surprise, waddling closer. “T-take it. It's yours now.” His shaky hands held out the piece to Ahiru. His arms gave way, falling limp while his eyes fluttered closed and darkness enveloped him. Horrified, she rushed forward, her beak catching the heart shard. Upon contact, there was a flash of red light and she was lifted into the air. The duck’s yellow feathers faded, revealing human skin. Her wings morphed into arms, her legs elongating. Sheets of paper swirled around the girl, assembling to form a silver ballerina's tutu. Dark green vines shot from the ground, tightening around her feet and turning into black pointe shoes. Combining with the heart shard, they formed an elaborate pendant choker with gossamer wings. The plants continued swirling around the girl, encircling limbs and fabric, decorating her costume.

The light faded and Ahiru fluttered to the ground, as graceful as Tutu, her alter ego. But Tutu had been dressed in pink and pure white, with flower petals and a gentle disposition, similar to Mytho. Her new form was somehow sharper, more aggressive, like Fakir. A strangled cry escaping her throat, the ballerina lunged at her fallen knight, cradling his cold body. “Fakir, wake up! Please!”

Laughter echoed throughout the pond, cutting through her desperate cries. Drosselmeyer appeared before her, clapping his gloved hands in joy. “Ah, Princess Tutu, you've returned! Only this time, you must retrieve your dear knight's heart shards instead of the prince's.” The girl gasped at the mention of her alter-ego. When she returned the last piece of Mytho's heart, Princess Tutu had vanished. Ceased to exist. But...

“Drosselmeyer! What did you do to him?”

“Ah, my little duck, I never did anything. The knight decided to give you a piece of his heart so you could become human once more.” Ahiru's eyes widened in horror at the man's words, her cheeks paling, her blood running cold. So Fakir really had sacrificed his heart for her. Her lip began to quiver when the realization hit her: it was her fault.

“But he is foolish, inexperienced with magic,” Drosselmeyer continued. “He accidentally shattered not one piece, but half of it.” With a gleeful cackle, he vanished.

“No! I'm so sorry! I'm sorry!” she shrieked, burying her head into Fakir's chest. Tears dripped from her eyes, soaking the front of his shirt. Clinging tighter to his body, she allowed grief to drown her. It crashed into her like a whirlwind, wrenching her heart in two. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Ahiru struggled to her feet, her chest tight. Papers and leaves fluttered about, helping support the fallen knight. She began to drag him home, trying to stop the tears blurring her vision.

Fakir was suffering.

Part of his heart was gone.

Drosselmeyer would get the tragedy he wanted.

And all because of her.

Her knees gave way, sending the two crashing to the ground. The girl's shaking hands dug into the grass, her body trembling as she choked back a sob.

Fakir. The boy who stood strong and steadfast, always so willing to endanger himself to protect others. He had looked right at fate and defied it, refusing to die by the Raven's claws. He had clung to his sword and pen, fighting against the odds. Even when Mytho was poisoned with the Raven's blood, even when Ahiru was a duck, he stayed loyal to them. He was a true knight, despite what his ancestor's wretched tale said. Gritting her teeth, Ahiru stood back up. If Fakir could be strong then so could she. Lifting her chin, the diminutive ballerina continued on, refusing to stop until she reached his home.

There was the faint noise of footsteps and a drum, making her look up. Uzura raced towards her, banging wildly on her wooden instrument. “Ahiru! What happened to him, zura?” she shouted.

“It's my fault.” Her voice was strained. Her throat was tight. What she had done could not be undone, for pain, while temporary, cut open deep wounds in your heart. She prayed that her tears would drown her and wash away the guilt. But it stained her, clinging to her body like an ugly scar.

“Are you okay, zura?” The green-haired marionette tugged on her skirt, looking up at her with concerned eyes.

“Hmm? I'm alright.” She wiped her tears, reinforcing her hold on Fakir. “Could you open the door for me, please?” The little puppet obeyed, and Ahiru carried the unconscious knight to his room, where she laid him down on his bed. After checking him for wounds, she pulled the covers over his shivering body.

Her pendant flashed, making her touch her neck. The shard was not bright red like Mytho's but a deep crimson with swirls of black. It was chipped—flawed like the boy who’d given it to her. Unlike Mytho, a perfect storybook character, Fakir was human. Everyone had darkness in their hearts and flaws in their personality, but those imperfections were what made a person's character.

Ahiru’s knees buckled and her legs gave way. She clasped his frigid hands in her and watched his still body. His face was peaceful and relaxed instead of twisted in pain. At least sleep offered him respite from his suffering. Ahiru laid her head on his chest, feeling it rise up and down, falling asleep to the faint beating of his incomplete heart.

Meanwhile, as his characters fell into a deep slumber, Drosselmeyer watched from his realm of gears, rocking back and forth in his wooden chair. It creaked loudly. The sound echoing in the hollow darkness. He sipped a cup of tea and a gleeful smile painted his weathered face. “Ah, how marvelous! Everything's going just according to plan. Soon the duck and the knight will be tangled in trouble—what a wondrous tragedy!”


	3. The Hollow Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fakir has lost half of his heart and become a shell of who he once was. It's up to Ahiru to restore his heart. There seems to be a heart shard hiding in the school. But where could it have hidden?

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess. She refused to marry anyone unless he promised to let himself be buried alive if she died first. All the suitors ran away, though one youth became so charmed with her beauty that he cared for little else. This man married her knowing what he must promise. They lived happily for a short while until the princess fell ill and died. So devoted to her was the prince that he honored his vow.

While in the tomb, the youth found a miracle—a remedy that would bring his dear wife back to life. He revived her but oh, ill-fated prince! While the princess was no longer a corpse, all her love for her husband had died. The youth's unwavering devotion was lost to a hollow woman who couldn't appreciate it.1

.....

The sun crept above the horizon. Orange, pink, and yellow bled into the deep blue of the sky. The crescent moon had not gone into hiding and instead shone proudly, a sliver of white against the clouds. Glittering stars were scattered throughout the sky. A beam of light illuminated Ahiru's pale, freckled face. She stirred, and her eyes flickered open. The confused girl lifted her head and looked around the room with half-closed lids. The beating of a drum sent the memories rushing back to her.

Turning around, Ahiru saw Uzura standing at the door with drumsticks clutched in her hands and a broad smile. “Good morning, Ahiru-zura and Fakir-zura!”

Fakir? Where was he? Drosselmeyer caused the knight to lose half his heart. Ahiru's gaze drifted downwards and landed on the boy's sleeping form. Her tiny hands clutched the front of his shirt, the dull blue fabric bunched up in her fists. She promptly released him as her breath caught in her throat. His long dark bangs covered his face and moved ever so slightly with each breath he took.

Fakir didn't seem so intimidating like this. When sleeping, he wasn't the determined knight who sliced through ravens to save a prince or a powerful writer who could merge fiction into reality. He was simply Fakir, a boy just like any other. Sometimes Ahiru found it easy to forget that he was around her age. He had always seemed so much stronger and experienced than her.

“What's wrong, zura?”

“I don't know.” There it was: the truth. Ahiru was just a duck, a little bird Drosselmeyer had pulled into his tale for a flourish. She didn't know anything. She wasn't human. The redhead let out a breath. Her fingers curled inwards; she gripped the thick blankets. But Ahiru was not a quitter. Fakir had never given up on her, and she would never give up on him.

Her hand rose to the choker around her throat. The pendent was smooth and warm to the touch, pulsating with an energy from within. It glowed such a lovely red that it made her heart cry out. Fakir's heart shard. He gave up a piece of his humanity so she could be human. It was a gift. For her. Tears stung Ahiru's eyes and blurred her vision. She couldn't fathom why he had done such a thing. She had been perfectly fine as a duck and could handle the boredom and discontentment that came with it just fine. Being a girl meant nothing to the Ahiru if her friend was not alright.

The little puppet tugged on the hem of her skirt. Her eyebrows raising, Ahiru looked down to see Uzura's wide, concerned eyes. “Are you okay, zura?”

Ahiru laughed and waved her hands, forcing her mouth into a smile. “I'm completely fine! Uzura, could you bring some water, please?”

The puppet nodded. “Okay, Ahiru-zura!” She bounced out of the room.

Ahiru's smile vanished. She sank to the floor and buried her head into the mattress. The coldness of the ground seeped into her body. Tears coated her thick lashes and dripped onto the bedspread. “I'm so sorry, Fakir.”

“What are you apologizing for, idiot?”

The voice sounded similar to Fakir's, but at the same time, it wasn't. It was monotone and emotionless like Mytho's had been. Oh dear, now she had gone so mad with guilt that she imagined things. Still, her hallucinations were very much like Fakir. That at least brought a bit of comfort.

“It's all my fault you lost half of your heart. And Drosselmeyer came back. He's probably got something to do with it. I wanted to stop him, but I couldn't.”

“That has nothing to do with you.”

Ahiru's imagination was quite stubborn. “Yes, it does. Because of me, you're hurt. Now I'm being weird and hearing things that aren't there.”

“Moron, look up.”

Ahiru jumped. Her eyes widened as she gasped. Fakir had stirred from his slumber and now sat before her. His face was passive and showed no signs of pain. “Fakir! You're okay!” She lunged at him and wrapped her arms around his torso. “I'm sorry.”

“Of course I am. Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault.” He grunted and tossed aside the covers. Laughing sheepishly, she released him. He climbed out of bed, slipped on his blue uniform jacket, and adjusted the necktie.

“But you were hurt yesterday. Shouldn't you be taking a day off from school?”

“No.” Fakir, tugging at the ruffles at the end of his sleeves, barely spared her a glance. He smoothed out his clothes and grabbed his books.

Ahiru scowled, puffing out her cheeks. She scurried in front of his path and folded her arms. “No, you are not leaving. You have to stay home to recover.”

“I'm not.”

Ahiru grabbed Fakir's arm and attempted to pull him back to his bed. She huffed and puffed, but he wouldn't budge. “But what about Drosselmeyer? What if he comes back to hurt you?”

“Don't get in my way,” he said, shaking off her grip. “You're always going around worrying about things you shouldn't. To put it simply, it's annoying.”

She glared at the teen as he simply brushed past her. Her, annoying? Well, Fakir sure was one to talk. Why, he was much more irritating than she was, walking around trying to handle things on his own and always forgetting to take care of himself. Fakir had lost half his heart, and he still wanted to go to school like nothing had happened. Ahiru wondered if there was a book on proper behavior for a person who lost a heart. If it was in a book, surely Fakir would relent. Perhaps she should write a novel herself. Maybe then he would listen. “If you’re going, then I’m coming with you.”

Finally, Fakir looked at her. His eyes widened when gaze landed on the choker at Ahiru’s neck. “Princess Ritter,” he murmured.

Ahiru reached for his arm. He was like a mix between a mindless puppet and a human. Fakir wasn’t heartless, but he didn’t quite have all the shards either. His words sounded rehearsed like an actor on stage. Without the emotion behind them, they were close to meaningless. “Do you know anything? Tell me. What about Princess Tutu? What happened to her?”

Fakir shook his head. “Tutu was an extension of Mytho. She’s gone. You’ll have to stay as Ritter for now until you get a change of clothes.” Princess Tutu had been Ahiru’s alter ego. When Mytho, a prince from one of Drosselmeyer’s fairy tales, shattered his heart, one heart shard allowed Ahiru to change from duck to girl to princess. Princess Tutu’s power stemmed from Mytho’s heart shard so when all of his heart was returned, Tutu disappeared. Being Tutu was like wearing a tailored costume. It fit like a glove, but it wasn’t quite right. Even being Ritter, an identity Ahiru wasn’t too accustomed to, was more comfortable than being Tutu had been.

“Ah, that makes sense! So that's why the clothes are different.” The redhead smoothed down the shimmering silver skirt. Even in the dim morning light, it glowed with an ethereal beauty like no human-made fabric would. The dress was crafted entirely of magic.

The morning bell rang just as Fakir nodded. Cawing birds shot into the air, their black forms dotting the expanse of blue sky. Students picked up their paces, and the chatter outside grew louder. The boy turned his head to look out of the window. His expression didn't change even when he walked past a confused Uzura who offered a pitcher of water. Ahiru bid goodbye to the puppet and followed her friend out the door. “I’m coming.”

He said, “Alright,” The boy didn't argue. He didn't have a reason to.

Fakir sounded like a talking doll. His voice was devoid of emotion. He tilted his head, gazing at her with passive green eyes. Unlike before, they had no fire, no sharpness. Normally, his glares would kill someone on the spot. There was no emotion or weight behind his actions; he only did what he had always done for the sake of doing so. Ahiru's breath caught in her throat when she noticed his vacant stare. This Fakir didn't seem to be able to care about anything enough to be angry. The Fakir she knew and loved would fight to his death to protect others, the loyal knight who would do anything to keep his promises. But without his heart, he was only a shell of that person.

Unfortunately, she found it difficult to keep up with his long strides. It didn't help that her friend had gotten a head start either. Ahiru ran as fast as her short legs could carry her, struggling to stay by his side. “H-hey, wait up!”

“So you're coming along.” An empty statement simply meant to fill the silence. Fakir walked at his usual pace with his hands in his pockets. Dull green eyes scanned the town. Even the bright colors and bustling of the cheery town coming to life failed to bring a smile to his face. Ahiru sighed at his apathy and reached for the pendent again.

Ahiru turned around and walked backwards. She gazed up at a white bird that dipped lower with outstretched wings. “Don't worry, I promise I won't be any trouble for you!”

“Don't make promises you can't keep, idiot.” She stumbled into a wall with a small shriek as soon as the words left his mouth. With the grace given by Princess Ritter, she managed not to trip and fall and easily recovered instead. Her friend gave her a knowing look.

Huffing, Ahiru folded her arms and stuck out her tongue at him. “I only fell because you said that.”

“Even with all the magic of Ritter, you're still too clumsy.”

“Even with half your heart gone, you're still too mean.”

Fakir took no offense to her comment and continued walking while Ahiru stood pouting. Realizing he was actually leaving her behind, she chased after him, grumbling and whining about how cruel he was. He sauntered across the campus with Ahiru at his heels. Her skirt spun around her body while she bounced about, the black ribbons twirling around the fabric. She twirled around and around but stopped when she nearly tripped. What she lacked in height, she made up for in enthusiasm.

“Calm down. We're only going to class.” He glanced at her with those dull eyes again. The redhead already missed when they had been a vibrant green, lighting up whenever he fought for something he was devoted to.

“I know! But it's been so long and I miss dancing with everyone and talking with my friends and—”

“It's not going to be like before. Things have changed.” Drosselmeyer's stories had controlled the town, and fiction and reality fused together. Corpses came back from the dead, human-like animals walked around the campus. People lived solely to carry out the roles they had been assigned. Drosselmeyer toyed with the lives of others and got pleasure from his sadistic tragedies. With the destruction of the old man's writing device, all his stories came to a halt. Magic left the town left the town. Enchantments came undone, and the town's inhabitants returned to their original selves. Now Gold Crown was an ordinary town.

“Wow, you're right! Is Mr. Cat still here? And Pique and Lillie?”

“No, when the story ended, he became a cat once more. As for your friends, they're still here.”

“Oh, that makes sense—”

“Bonjour, mademoiselle! Your beauty surpasses even the loveliest of flowers!” A boy appeared, surrounded by swirling petals. He knelt before Ahiru, bowed his head, and offered her a red rose, his deep purple hair flowing over his shoulders. “For you, my princess; my love is yours and yours alone!”

“F-Femio?” the flustered redhead squawked. While Mytho had been a fairy tale prince come to life from the pages of a book, Femio was nothing more than a pompous idiot who served to annoy everyone. He constantly proclaimed his love for every girl he saw and proceeded to curse his lovely face for causing so much heartbreak. In truth, everyone only wanted him to leave. The phony prince was nothing more than a nuisance, though as foppish as he was, he was the only person to resist the Raven's power by himself. The Raven was a wicked creature created by Drosselmeyer to torture the town's inhabitants. At one point, while still sealed away, it attempted lure people into giving up their pure hearts to gain power. Ironically enough, while it was Femio's arrogance and stupidity that led the Kraehe to pursue him as a victim under the Raven's orders, it was also those same traits that saved him.

“You know my name? I see my reputation precedes me. It is a terrible curse, to be loved by so many.” He flashed her a smile, his violet eyes sparkling. Rising up, he spun around with a flamboyant sweep of his arm.

Fakir raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to his friend. “Ahiru, do you...know him?”

“Ah, is this a jealous lover I see? Oh, I don't blame you for your envy; it is impossible to compete with a true prince such as I. It is quite clear who the lady has chosen.”

“Idiot.”

Ahiru tugged on her friend's arm. She wanted to get away from Femio before he called upon his bull.

“Oh, the envy burns your heart! But did you really think you had a chance? For I am a true prince! This cursed beauty of mine, to cause such a terrible emotion. Please, punish this sin—”

“Shut up. You're extremely irritating.” Anger. So that emotion had remained. It was terrible, really. Ahiru hadn't wanted him to lose half his heart, but if she had a choice, she would've picked the loss of his worse traits. Despite that, she couldn't help but laugh at his choice of words. It was a very Fakir thing to say. Eyeing the bull creeping closer behind Femio, she pulled more insistently on her friend's arm. “Fakir, we really, really have to go now!”

“Why—”

“Olé!” shouted an old man. His red-haired friend yanked him to the side just as a bull shot forward, led by the man with a red cloth. Femio fell backwards into the pile of roses the man laid for him. The bull trampled Femio, leaving footprints over his school uniform while he twitched in pain, but the cocky smile never left his face. The man picked up the boy, and laid him on the animal's back, then climbed up and rode away.

“What the hell? How do you even know this guy?” the writer grumbled, surveying the scene before him. Crushed roses were now scattered across the courtyard. Accustomed to the false prince's ways, the other students rolled their eyes.

“I sort of met him that day when Kraehe tried to steal his heart and Mytho did the mime for love and there were bulls everywhere—”

When the bull dashed past them, the pendant around Ahiru's neck suddenly glittered, making her raise her fingers to the stone. Could Femio hold a heart shard? But when she had gathered the pieces of Mytho's heart, the holders acted different from the people they normally were. Femio had acted like before, if perhaps more pompous and obnoxious. That wasn't strange, but could it have been Fakir's pride? “Fakir, I think he has one of your heart shards!”

“Does he? Is that to explain his behavior?” 

The green-eyed boy tilted his head. His expression was neutral, but Ahiru could swear that his malachite eyes seemed to burn just a tad greener. Was it only her imagination? At the thought, she immediately blushed. She shook her head, pushing away her silly thoughts. No, there was no way Fakir would be jealous. It wasn't possible for him to return her feelings. Slapping her hands over her mouth, Ahiru tried to sort out her thoughts before speaking. Finally, she decided on her words. “No, he was always like that.”

Fakir shrugged, raising an eyebrow at her behavior. Then he brushed it off. After all, it was Ahiru: everything about her was odd. “If there's no change, perhaps nothing's wrong. Go look for heart shards somewhere else. But right now, we should get you enrolled, then get to class.”

“Sounds good! I'll do my best!” The ballerina twirled around, eyes burning with determination. “You'll get your heart back, I promise!”

He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away and closed his eyes. “Don't waste time on trifles, idiot. You shouldn't be troubling yourself.”

“But it's no trouble at all, I swear!” She latched onto his arm and tugged at his blue uniform sleeve. “Why can't you let someone help you for once?”

“I have no need of an entire heart.” 

“No! Everyone needs a heart and I'll definitely get the rest of yours back.” Ahiru nodded with certainty, her eyebrows knitting together, her hands balling into fists.

“Fine. Do what you wish,” he relented, a smile tugging at his stern lips. It was typical of her stubborn self to argue.

The diminutive dancer smiled at his words, gazing at him with her bright blue eyes. She barely reached the top of his shoulders. When she looked up at the male, she was reminded of that time where she had found him desolate at the lake. She had been a duck, so he had taken her into his arms without hesitation. Fakir was always by himself, fighting alone, crying alone. Even with Mytho he had been alone, as the heartless teen understood nothing. But not anymore. She silently vowed that she would stay by his side, just as he did to her in the lake. He no longer had to stand alone.

Femio only became more obnoxious while the hours passed, offering Ahiru roses at every minute. He bombastically professed his devotion to her and swore to love no other. He constantly interrupted classes, much to the teacher's chagrin. Not to mention that there was also an increase in the number of bulls in Gold Crown Town. Where exactly did the phony prince get them? Yet every time Ahiru ran into him, the pendant at her neck glowed more brightly. She had changed into the uniform given to her at the admission office but kept the choker. 

When the lunch hour began, Ahiru felt an immense relief wash over her and searched for Fakir. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. She had looked in the library, the practice rooms—even the courtyard. Oh, did Fakir hate being around so many people. Yet the redhead had already checked the entire school. He was nowhere to be found among the groups of chattering students, so Ahiru decided to try her luck at finding Autor. Despite his all-knowing and condescending attitude, he had been of immense help in defeating Drosselmeyer. For that, Ahiru considered him a friend.

As expected, Autor was in one of the music rooms practicing the piano. Upon hearing her entering, he looked up and lifted his fingers from the keys. “Ah, come to visit me since Fakir has left you?”

Ahiru scowled, huffing, “He didn’t leave me. I just can’t find him,”

“But you did come here for a reason, did you not?” Autor’s glasses flashed in the light, the glare hiding his eyes. His lips curled into a smirk.

“I wanted to ask you about Drosselmeyer. He came back yesterday! And Fakir’s lost half his heart!”

Autor sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. He stood and walked to the windows, clasping his hands behind him, his back to Ahiru. “I’m not surprised. That power of his is going to waste.”

“No, it isn’t! Fakir is a good writer!” The redhead took a step forward as her hands curled into fists.

“He is as short-tempered as everyone says. Fakir tends to rely on brute strength and makes rash decisions. He still needs to learn that in situations like this, words are extremely powerful.”

Ahiru vigorously shook her head. “What happened was Drosselmeyer’s fault. If he never came back, none of this would have happened.” She took a deep breath and looked away. “Autor, please, I need your help to save Fakir. I don’t know how to do this on my own.”

Autor slowly turned around and fixed his gaze on her. “Fine. Come with me.” He led Ahiru to one of the secluded rooms in the library. Tomes with cracked spines lined the shelves. An author’s name, the gold letters shining beneath the layer of dust, caught Ahiru’s eye. She stepped forward and brushed away the dust to reveal ‘Drosselmeyer’ written in looping cursive. Gasping, she stumbled backwards and tripped over her own feet. She looked up to see Autor, who sighed in irritation.

“Be more aware of your surroundings,” he grumbled and ignored her hurried apologies. “Now, every book here was written by Drosselmeyer. Some stories,” he pulled out a copy of The Prince and the Raven, “have not been finished,”

“The story came true. Mytho and Rue and—”

“Yes, obviously, but the characters led the tale to an end. Therefore...” Autor opened the book. Ahiru’s eyes widened. She reached for the book and flipped through the pages. Words that had not existed before now filled the creamy white paper and detailed the events from months ago.

They lived happily ever after for the time being.

Ahiru ran her fingers over the final line, her heartbeat speeding. What did ‘for the time being’ mean? She closed the book and looked up. “How is this possible?” 

Autor retrieved the book from her and reshelved it. His eyes gleamed with wild excitement. “Don’t you see? A new tale—a fanfiction—has begun. We are in Drosselmeyer’s story and to a greater extent, someone else’s.” He laughed at Ahiru’s puzzled expression and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I didn’t expect you to understand. But understand now, I am a plot device. I am important.”

“Okay! It was nice talking to you.” She backed away from the crazed musician and dashed to the ballet division of the school. Much to her frustration, she soon found her path blocked by Femio.

“Bonjour, my ravishing goddess! Your beauty grows with every passing minute!” Femio shouted, kneeling before her to offer another flower. Ahiru glanced around the hallway, searching for Fakir for any means of escape.

“I h-have to get to class,” she stammered, toying with her fingers. The corridor was empty, having been long deserted by the girls once Femio had set foot inside it.

“Oh, it is unbearable, for I am utterly devoted to you. How heartbroken must others feel, their poor burdened hearts! This cursed beauty of mine; I must repent for my sins!”

“Wait, Femio, there is nothing to be sorry for!” The redhead checked to make sure there weren't any incoming bulls, and Femio's butler was nowhere in sight. Touching her pendant, she felt herself transform into Princess Ritter.

When the transformation was complete, the ballerina stepped forward. “Femio, you don't have to suffer like this!”

He looked at her in confusion, unable to recognize the redhead in her new form. “I apologize, mademoiselle, but my heart already belongs to another maiden! Oh, this wretched fate, to be loved by everyone!” He bent over and clutched his heart, his purple hair splaying across the floor.

Ahiru rotated her hands above her head and slowly lowered her arms. “Please, will you dance with me?” she requested, extending a hand.

“I cannot, for I am utterly devoted to another!”

She gasped, and her brows rose as her eyes widened. She was hit with a sudden realization; he had the heart shard of devotion. In Drosselmeyer’s last story, Femio had claimed to be in love with every maiden. To commit himself to only one girl was unusual for him. The reason Femio continued bothering the redhead was because he was affected by the heart shard of devotion! And Fakir—he was like a puppet with no direction because couldn't devote himself to a cause. Without his devotion, Fakir wandered aimlessly through his life. He couldn’t find meaning in life nor a reason to live.

Grasping Femio’s hands, the dancer pulled Femio into a pas de deux. His limbs relaxed, and the tension drained from his body. Looking at the girl with his teary eyes, Femio allowed himself to be led through the dance. “Don't you believe that you qualify to be a true prince? Do you not love everyone?” Ahiru continued, twirling around the boy with grace and ease.

“I...I can only care for one right now.” Femio faltered in his step and closed his eyes. He pulled away from Ahiru.

She tightened her grip on his wrists and silently forced him to continue the dance. “Why is that? How can you chose only one girl?”

“I don't know! And I cause so many the terrible burden of unrequited love, so I knew I must pick only one lest I hurt the others.” Femio shook his head, his wavy hair falling in front of his eyes. The dancer took his hands and pulled him into a spin.

“This feeling is not yours.” Ahiru coaxed the heart shard out of his chest. A faint red image of Fakir dressed in medieval clothing appeared before her. “You don't have to stay any longer. You can now return to your original owner.”

“Thank you, Princess Ritter.” Its eyes closed as a smile spread across its face. The heart shard sparkled and transformed into a small crimson gem. Ahiru clasped in her hands. The jewel burned hot against her skin, just like the courageous fire in her knight's eyes. Devotion was a valuable emotion; to lose passion and commitment to things was the same as wandering without a purpose.

“Femio, you can return to loving everyone,” she said, but much to her relief, the phony prince had already disappeared. Ahiru felt a twinge of relief. She had spent enough time with him—one more minute would have been extraneous.

Footsteps echoed behind her. She turned around to meet Fakir's gaze. He stood a couple feet away from her, shrouded in shadows. Though most of his face was obscured by long dark hair, a faint smile could be seen. Ahiru held her arms out and watched the heart shard returned to her friend. He gave a sharp gasp as the red sparks faded. Immediately, his chest felt heavier, as though more weight had been added, which must've been true. Devotion was a heavy emotion. Fakir clutched his chest, his eyes widening. He lifted his head to look at the redhead before him. Princess Ritter vanished and left behind the Ahiru the girl.

“Thank you, Ahiru.”

“You're welcome.”

.....

1 - Based off 3 Snake Leaves, a German fairy tale collected by the Brothers Grimm.


	4. Aria da Capo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious play appears along with more black feathers as more of the town's strangeness comes to light. Ahiru searches for answers and sees another heart shard. Which one is it?

Once upon a time, there was a man who died. He had been writing a story; his death left incomplete. Since then, stories and reality intermingled in the town and made it a world where the fantastical was no longer fantastical. The people were controlled by a story and were powerless to break free. 

But the narrative had an unexpected happy ending brought on by a knight and a duck. The man who died wasn't pleased with the outcome of the last tale and began to spin another story, pulling the duck and the knight into it. Once again, stories and reality mixed together.

.....

"Ah, madam, that ring is quite lovely." A man stopped before a white goose who sat with a parasol on the bench, the large red stone on the tip of her wing sparkling in the sunlight. The warm rays slipped through the canopy of leaves to create an intricate pattern of shadows on the ground. A gentle breeze stirred the blades of grass and scattered dandelion seeds throughout the air. The day was bright and cloudy. Despite the heat and humidity, the man wore a heavy black cloak with the hood pulled over his face. Only his mouth was visible. 

"Why thank you, kind sir!" 

"If you would allow me to, may I please have it?” The man presented a bulging bag of money. "I would like to buy it from you."

The goose blinked, her eyes widening when he opened the bag to show the money. The gold coins glittered. Her mouth dropped open. Inadvertently, she leaned closer. Oh, there were so many of them! All that money for a single ring she'd found on her doorstep. She slipped it off and dropped it in the man's palm despite the nagging voice in the back of her head that begged her not to. His fingers closed around it like a claw snapping shut. He turned around and walked away without another word. 

She watched him leave while stroking her beak. Why did he pay so much for a mere ring? The goose figured it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She opened the bag to count her money. But she pulled out the coins, their sheen dimmed and color darkened. The goose who once had a lovely ring now had no ring and a bag of sleek black feathers.

Drosselmeyer laughed when her satisfied look turned to one of horror. He rocked back and forth while he watched the story unfold from the large gear spinning before him. The goose let out a loud squawk and fluttered away, dropping the bag. A gust of wind came and carried the feathers high into the air. The bright blue sky was dotted with bits of black. Another breeze scattered the crow feathers across town, and they fell down onto the buildings and people. It was no longer a perfect summer day; now the clouds began to darken. 

"What a wonderfully wretched fate! A beautifully imperfect character and a horrid end to a lovely day!" 

The old man who was supposed to die cackled and rubbed his palms together. White, puffy clouds became black and ominous. Thunder alerted the townspeople of the storm's arrival, followed by a bolt of lightning. White-hot flashes appeared against the dismal gray. The feathers the man in all black had left behind grew into a murder of crows. Cawing, they swept across the sky and infiltrated the little town, landing on rooftops and settling into trees. 

"Yes, you hideous little creatures, spread your misery throughout the town, for this is my tragedy, a cataclysm a tears in which no one shall receive a happy ending! Eh, eh, eh." His gleeful voice faded to a strained wheeze. Drosselmeyer heaved over in a coughing fit. "Oh dear, now this won't do. The dead don't get sick." 

He snapped his fingers. A larger gear dropped down in front of the first, and a new scene unfolded. In the middle of colorful gardens and pristine evergreen grass stood an impressive building that reached up to the sky. In the highest tower of the academy, isolated from the rest of the building, in a small dusty room, laid a thin girl with bright red hair. She laid on the top bunk of her bed and stared up at the ceiling while clutched a duck pillow. At the window was her only source of light: a small red lamp.

Turning on her side, Ahiru rubbed the gleaming pendant between her fingers. It was as smooth as marble except for the chip near the bottom. Absently, she ran her thumb over it. The stone glowed and heated up, making the girl sit up with a gasp. Then the light faded, and it fell back against her neck, lifeless once more. Ahiru looked around but saw no one. Like always, she was alone in the tiny attic room. Walls met a haphazardly sloping angles, and the ceiling slanted sharply. Cobwebs hanging from the dark corners collected bits of dust and dead black bugs. 

"That's right. I'm in the dorm again," Ahiru murmured. She rubbed her eyes. Her back was sore, and her muscles ached. Closing her eyes, the redhead thought back to the nights she had spent at Fakir's house. Fakir's foster father Charon was kind and welcoming. The food served was warm and delicious and gave her a joyous feeling inside. The beds were soft and the blankets were cozy and—

No, Ahiru couldn't ask Fakir if she could sleep over. Not again. After him losing half his heart to turn her into a girl, asking for a place to stay was asking too much. She climbed out of the bunk bed and stretched, her joints popping. Ahiru’s unsteady betrayed her and caught on one of the ladder rings, sending her tumbling to the ground. She sighed. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still a klutz.” The girl fumbled with her white uniform top, which was wrinkled from being left on the ground. 

The pitter-patter of the raindrops against the window made her look up. "Oh, it's raining." Frowning, she struggled to put on her jacket. It was stiff and scratchy. Ahiru had grown too used to having feathers. Once more, she felt as though she didn't belong. She shouldn't be wearing the drab gray uniform and attending ballet class. She should be swimming in her pond, hidden behind trees where no one knew of her existence. Ahiru was just a duck. A duck, and nothing more. Once she returned Fakir's heart to him, she would go back to being a bird and stop troubling him.

Someone knocked on the door. Ahiru sighed. She wasn't ready to handle Pique and Lillie. She hadn't talked to her former friends since she'd become a girl, but she figured that was how the story, or 'fan fiction' as Autor had called it, worked. The three were simply friends. There wasn't a good reason behind it.

"Hey, are you ready?" It was Fakir.

Another knock. This one was louder. “Idiot, hurry up." 

"Ahhh!" Ahiru dived for her shoe and yanked it on. She hopped around on one foot to search for the other. She tripped and tumbled headfirst into the ground. 

Ahiru heard footsteps fading away. “I'm leaving without you. Just don't be late, idiot.” 

“Waiiittttttttt!” She found her missing shoe and yanked it on. Grabbing her bag, she shoved open the door, nearly hitting Fakir with it. “Gah! I'm sorry!”

His eyebrow twitched while he folded his arms. “It's fine. Now let's go.”

“Oh, okay!" She bounced alongside him on their way to the studio, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Hey, isn’t it really early?”

"Early for you. If you want even a chance of moving up a class, you need to start showing up on time.” The ballet students were mainly divided into three different categories: beginner, intermediate, and advanced. There was one class, an extension of the advanced class, with only five spaces and composed of especially skilled female ballet dancers.

There was also probation class for the extremely troublesome students. Ahiru had found herself in the probation class too many times due to missing many classes from being late. In contrast, Fakir was devoted to ballet and spent hours practicing, even in the early morning when other students had yet to awaken, and was a well-respected member of the advanced class. With Mytho, the most sought-after boy and star danseur, gone, it was safe to assume to Fakir had filled the role. Their friendship was odd and unexpected; they were quite mismatched, but Ahiru preferred it no other way. 

He stopped in front of the large double doors. “Beginner classes are first. I’ll be in one of the practice rooms.” 

"Ah, that's a relief! I'm still not used to being a girl, and everything's changed." The redhead flashed him a bright grin, her blue eyes sparkling. She wrapped her arms around his torso, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. "But I'm really glad you wrote a story about me, Fakir!" Despite her guilt, Ahiru couldn’t help but feel an extreme happiness at being a girl again. She hadn’t realized how much she missed being human. But there was that thought that worked its way into her mind—she was never meant to be human.

At her embrace, Fakir’s lips twitched into a small smile. "Don’t be ridiculous,” he said as his tanned skin turned slightly red. 

Frowning, she looked up at his face. “I’m not being ridiculous. You’re just being mean.”

The smile widened. Ahiru blinked. Yes, her friend really was smiling. Even when Fakir had all of his heart, he perpetually frowned. To those who didn’t know him well, he appeared intimidating and abrasive. His lack of a cheerful disposition tended to scare others away, but the people who grew closer to him were able to see Fakir smile from time to time. Somehow, seeing her friend in a relatively good mood made Ahiru happy.

A sharp pain at the back of her head made her look up. Fakir tugged on her braid. “Now go, moron, or you’ll be late.”

Pouting, Ahiru released him. What a jerk. He just had to go ruin everything, didn’t he? When they turned the corner, a flash of red caught her eye, making her head snap to the side. Gasping, she checked her pendant to see that it was indeed glowing. Ahiru paused for a closer look. The red faded—the heart shard was moving farther away. Oh no! She had to catch up with the it before she lost it. Fakir needed all the pieces of his heart back as soon as possible. 

“Bye, Fakir! I’ll see you later!” she shouted, waving goodbye while she dashed down the hall.

“H-Hey, where are you going?” 

“I’m getting your heart shards back!” 

“Moron! Just don’t be late.”

Ahiru giggled. That was nearly impossible for her. The diminutive girl had a natural inclination for tardiness. Missing a lot of class time was one of the reasons why she was a terrible dancer. No doubt would she be put into probation again in her very first week. But even if Ahiru was not adept in dancing, she could surely do something to help her friends! She nodded and balled her hands into fists. Yes, she would find the rest of Fakir’s heart shards and help Autor find happiness. Without his heart, Fakir would never be truly happy. And Autor, well, while the boy hid behind books and knowledge, Ahiru thought that he always seemed so sad. She wanted to help him too if possible. 

The girl crashed into something hard and moving. She gasped when she and the mysterious thing both tumbled to the ground. Her elbow dug into soft fur while her chin smacked into the hard tile floor. A strained meow echoed throughout the school. Ahiru looked up. Her blue eyes widened upon seeing Mr. Cat, her former anthropomorphic ballet instructor who had an obsession with love. When Drosselmeyer’s story had ended, he had become a regular cat with a litter of kittens and white cat as a wife. The feline’s tail flicked back and forth like a metronome. His return further indicated that Drosselmeyer was beginning to stir up trouble. For the duration of the writer's stories, animals had walked the halls like people while no one batted an eye. 

”Running through the halls is not tolerated!” the feline screeched. “If I wasn’t already married, as punishment, I would have you marry—“ Ahiru scrambled to her feet and lept away from the animal. She ran in the other directon as quickly as her legs could carry her. The teacher, meowing loudly, began to furiously groom himself by licking one leg. She looked around only to find that the red light had faded. There was no way she could find the heart shard. It was just her luck to run into Mr. Cat again. Sighing, Ahiru trudged to ballet class. There was no point in searching now.

A gust of wind made her head snap up. The whirl of papers lazily spun in circles before they landed at her feet. Biting her lip, the girl picked them up and smoothed them out. The edges were rough; the papers had been torn from a book. Looping cursive in blood-red ink filled the yellowed pages. 

Once upon a time, there were characters controlled by a script that was not of their own. Two lovers in a quarrel, two shepherds in a dangerous game of make-believe. The shepherds reenacted a story in which two friends, consumed by greed and hatred, became enemies and eventually killed each other. They were characters playing other characters in a play within a play. Ultimately, they were powerless to escape from the story, a tale in which close relationships were driven to ruin.1

Her eyes widened as her breaths grew ragged and harsh. Ahiru's trembling hands clapped over her mouth to stifle a scream. Regaining her composure, she tightened her grip on the papers. When she flipped through the pages, a lone feather, sleek and glossy and black, slipped out. She flinched as though it had burned her. "What is this?" she gasped and looked around the hall, only to catch a glimpse of a murder of crows taking off from the school roof outside the window. 

The redhead shoved the papers into her bag and ran to the practice rooms. She ducked her head into each of them and only found the rooms empty. She groaned, wishing she'd asked Fakir which room he'd be in earlier. After finding yet another room empty, Ahiru rested her head against the door. Stupid. Why hadn't she bothered? She needed him, and now, the knight was nowhere to be found. She really was an idiot. Ahiru never thought anything through—

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Ahiru turned around just when Fakir shut the door behind him to the one room she had yet to check. If she had just opened it earlier, she would've found her friend. Why did she waste time moping? Geez, she must be a handful for him to put up with.

His malachite eyes bore into Ahiru. Suddenly, she couldn't speak for the words refused to leave her mouth. "I-I..." 

"What is it?" He folded his arms. "You better have a good reason for being here." 

Ahiru all but flung the papers at him, earning herself an annoyed look. Upon seeing the pages, his expression changed to one of surprise: mouth falling open, eyebrows shooting up. "This is like from before..." 

"B-Before? What do you mean?" she spluttered. Fakir hadn't told her anything. She felt a twinge of hurt and anger at his secrecy. Her hands curled into fists. Ahiru was embroiled in this mess as much as he was; he had no right to be keeping things hidden! 

"Before I turned you back, Autor found music sheets for Swan Lake, but all the notes were in red ink." 

"Swan Lake?"

“It's a ballet that was written... Never mind." 

In 1875. Somehow, despite not being cognizant of the ballet, Ahiru knew the answer. She frowned. The date sounded so unfamiliar, the way an unprecedented year might. Was the ballet really from the future? The girl tried to recall the current year, but her mind remained blank. What was the date? Had the gears of time in the town remained motionless, suspended in the depths of nothingness, because of Drosselmeyer’s stories? Or was it that she hadn’t noticed simply because she was a duck? Ahiru wanted to ask Fakir, but she didn't press him. Instead, she told him about the heart shard and how she found the story.

“Don't waste time on trifles, idiot. You should've searched later." 

"B-But you need your heart back as soon as possible."

"I can manage without all of it. Don't trouble yourself too much."

"Ugh, you're always like that!" Ahiru pouted, twisting her head to look up at him. "You're always so mean to everyone, especially yourself!" If she knew anything about Fakir, it was that he wore guilt like battle armor. It encased his body and prevented anything from reaching his heart. The redhead sighed. Her friend was acting so pessimistic because he’d given her the heart shard of hope. No matter. She had enough hope for the both of them, and because the heart shard resonated with the other pieces, she would use it to return the rest of the knight’s heart. 

Ahiru closed her eyes. The thought of ballet still harbored in the back of her mind, a weed of curiosity that threatened to wreck the thriving garden. But, oh! So curious was she that the girl bid goodbye to her friend and walked to the library. It was like a fish hook had tangled in her mind and pulled her closer and closer to the ambiguous source Try as she might, the girl couldn’t escape it. The only thing she could do was play the role like a marionette. But as she drew closer to the library, the feeling only grew stronger. Ahiru found no relief.

Unsurprisingly, she was greeted by Autor. He almost seemed to be expecting her arrival. The pianist closed his book and walked over to her. His smirk only seemed to widen. ”Ah, Fakir’s duck friend. I assume you two have come to the same conclusion I have?” 

“Fakir said that the music sheets from earlier, well, they were for a ballet that...”

”You don’t think it has been created yet.” Autor pushed up his glasses. “I figured as much. Due to my superior research, I’ve concluded that since the town has been trapped in stories for so long, time has failed to pass properly. Now you can’t recall the correct year, can you?”

Ahiru shook her head. His suspicions confirmed, the musician unrolled a yellowed scroll. He set books on the ends to keep it flat on the desk. “Stories are timeless. As a result of being in one, the town is trapped in a period of abeyance.” 

She bit her lip, her teeth digging into the delicate skin. Ahiru’s face scrunched in thought. Her nose crinkled, and her smattering of freckles momentarily disappeared. This wasn’t the first time Autor had researched Drosselmeyer. No, he’d done so for years and even knew obscure bits of trivia, like the old man’s favorite blend of tea. Though, knowing time didn’t pass properly in the town didn’t help matters. While extensive, Autor’s knowledge was rarely useful. 

The redhead opened her mouth to speak but found that the musician was gone. Her eyes widened when she looked around. Ahiru peeked behind every shelf and table in the little room; Autor was nowhere to be found. “Where did he go?” 

“Who?” asked a faint voice. 

Yelping, Ahiru jumped. The stubborn lock of hair that always stuck straight up twitched with her fitful movements. Her pendant flashed red, and she gasped. “Who’s there?”

”Who’s who?” 

“You! The voice.”

”Why?” 

Her forehead creased. Her lips pressed together. "What do you mean 'why'?" The redhead toyed with the edge of her uniform sleeve. 

"Why do you want to know?" 

Ahiru laughed nervously, filling the room with shrill, forced giggles. "B-Because it's really creepy to hear a voice coming out of nowhere, don't you think? Tell me where you are."

"Why?" 

Frowning, she ducked her head beneath the table. The space underneath it was empty save for a few cobwebs and dust bunnies. Looking back up, she found that, just as before, the room was empty. Nothing had changed, so where was the voice coming from? The pendant continued to glow, and its light brightened when she neared the corner of the room.

"Hello? Who are you?" 

"Who are you?" 

Ahiru stared at the bookshelf. The far end emitted a faint red glow that matched that of her pendant. "I'm Ahiru. I'm Fakir's friend. Maybe I'm friends with Autor too, but I'm not sure." She stepped forward. The light intensified. 

"Why?" 

A book shook then jerked forward and tumbled to the floor, falling open to the middle of the story. A small red shard rose from the pages and was suspended in the air, its glow beckoning her to come closer.

Ahiru touched her pendant and closed her eyes while the transformation took over. Her hair twisted up into a braided up-do while papers and dark green vines swirled around her body to form black pointe shoes and a silver tutu. Taking a dainty step forward, Ahiru beckoned to the heart shard. “Please come out now. This is not where you belong.” 

A faint red projection of Fakir materialized in front of her. Like the real Fakir, the heart shard’s image had thick eyebrows that gave it a permanent look of seriousness. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail framed the front of its face and covered part of the eyes. “Where do I go then, Princess Ritter?” 

“Back to Fakir so he can have all the pieces of his heart.” 

The image faded, replaced by the tiny red shard that slowly lowered before her. Gasping, Ahiru reached out with open palms then closed her fingers around the gem. The ribbons around her ankles loosened while her dress dulled. No longer needed, Princess Ritter’s transformation came undone. "Another piece of Fakir's heart," she whispered with wide eyes. "The desire for knowledge." 

Now she needed to actually find Fakir. He was probably annoyed that she would suddenly appear then run away. Upon heading out to the main section of the library, she found Autor with a nose stuck in a book. Down the cracked spine in flowing gold cursive was the author’s name: Drosselmeyer. The girl laughed. How typical of him. He was as obsessed with the dead author as the girls had been with Mytho. Handsome and kind and mysterious, Mytho had loyal fan clubs dedicated to him when he attended the academy. But because Drosselmeyer’s last story had ended and the prince returned to his fairy tale kingdom with Rue as his princess, no one remembered them. Mytho and Rue were two of the best dancers in the ballet division, and both were greatly admired by their peers. In fact, they had been the most adored couple. Now that the last tale had ended, they could finally have their happily ever after while Ahiru and Fakir were stuck with Autor. 

Hands wrapped tightly around the heart shard, the girl walked through the library. She checked the shard every couple minutes to make sure she hadn’t lost it. It was Fakir’s heart! Unlike Mytho who had no heart for so long that he’d forgotten how it felt, Fakir vividly remembered the lost emotions. Or so Ahiru hoped. He kept telling her not to “waste time on trifles.” Why, the lost of feelings was far from a trifle—it was a tragedy! The knight thought that because he needed to protect everyone, he had a right to tell her what to do. Ahiru refused to listen. She saw firsthand how Mytho suffered without a heart, and she refused to let her friend go through the same thing for too long. 

Ahiru stumbled into something hard. The force of the collision caused her to fall backwards. Wincing, she braced herself for the impact, but hands set themselves on her shoulders to steady her. She looked up, gasping when she met Fakir’s malachite eyes. Even now their dullness did not cease to startle her. Oh, how she wished for their vibrant color to return! 

“What are you doing, idiot?” There was no malice behind his words, but the usual teasing affection was gone. 

“F-Fakir! I’m not surprised. I should’ve expected to see you here. You like books, and the library has books. So you must like the library!” Ahiru covered her mouth with one hand to stop the overflow of words. Of course the library had books. No wonder Fakir always called her an idiot; she really was one. Sometimes.

He sighed. “Get to the point.”

“I wanted to talk to Autor about what happened earlier. Since he’s involved in this story, I figured I should let him know when stuff like that happens. But I also happened to find another piece of your heart.” Unfolding her other hand, she held it out to him. The heart shard lifted up into the air and sank into Fakir’s chest. His eyes widened. He raised his hands to his heart. 

“This feeling, is it curiosity?” 

Ahiru nodded. “The heart shard kept asking me questions. Even if I answered, it wouldn’t stop.”

“If doing so is too troubling, then—“ 

“Fakir, stop! You’re always running around doing things alone and worrying about everyone. It’s not fair! Let someone else worry about you.” 

Her friend rolled his eyes and walked past her. “How pointless. If you want to bother yourself with such useless things, go ahead. I won’t try to stop you.” 

The duck girl pouted and grabbed Fakir’s sleeve. “It’s not useless! You saw how Mytho was—it’s important for you to get back all of your heart.” 

“I know firsthand how Mytho has acted, but there is no need for me to have an entire heart. I know how to act accordingly, and I’d rather not be a burden.” 

“You’re not a burden. I like helping you! I like being around you when you have all of your heart, even if you can be mean sometimes.” She tightened her grip and stepped closer. Her hands trembled. Ahiru touched the pendant for support and took a deep breath. “It’s no trouble at all! Please, Fakir, don’t do this alone. We have to work together.” 

Silence. Minutes passed. Ahiru released him and dropped her arm. Fakir finally scoffed, “Idiot, tangling yourself in my mess. Don’t you have any concern for yourself?”

Ahiru recalled a faint memory. Two hearts, one white and one red, dangled before her. Miss Edel, a green-haired puppet whom Drosselmeyer had sent to build exposition for his story, told her that she needed to work with someone. That courage required two people, two hearts. Back then, she thought the puppet meant Rue or Mytho. Back then, she only held contempt for Fakir. Ahiru realized that she needed to work with him all along and now more than ever. 

She forced herself to meet his eyes. Their emptiness unnerved her. “I...” The words, fighting valiantly to escape, were on the tip of her tongue. I love you. 

The heat rising to her cheeks, Ahiru clasped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes narrowed in determination. She refused to move her hands as though doing so would cause her to explode. No way could she say such a thing. Fakir was too level-headed to let such a confession affect their friendship, but the moment would be too bizarre. Besides, he already lost his heart. Ahiru didn’t want to pile her feelings on top of his already heavy load of problems. 

“What is it?” 

“Never mind.”

“Idiot. Finish your sentences.”

Confidence renewed, she balled her hands into fists, head snapping up. “Helping you doesn’t bother me at all! You promised to stay by my side forever, so it’s only fair that I do the same.” 

Fakir’s gaze softened. His usually harsh expression didn’t look so cold. The ghost of a smile played at his lips. Ahiru couldn’t help but stare while she tried to remember what how he would’ve looked when he had all his heart. A smile from Fakir was rare, even a Fakir with an entire heart. Considering the dire circumstances, that wasn’t too surprising. The girl remembered a time when she’d walked home with him after another encounter with the Raven. They’d talked about something—she couldn’t recall—and then, he smiled for her. A small genuine smile reserved just for the red-haired duck girl. It had sent a warm tingly feeling throughout her body. Even the thought of it now did. 

Ahiru glanced back at up at Fakir. The curve of his nose, how his jaw tightened, how his eyebrows knitted together. He had enough emotions to be worried. Rightfully so. Ahiru couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t rewrite reality or fight like the knight could, but she could restore his heart. Once Fakir had all of his heart, he’d have his full power back and be able to properly resist Drosselmeyer. Yes, even if she couldn’t do much else, Ahiru would definitely return the rest of his heart. 

.....

 

1 - Based off Aria da Capo: A Play in One Act by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It was originally published around 1920.


End file.
